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Moonlight peers through window blinds,
thin, fluorescent strips streaking the beige
walls and tea green sheets. Her dew-eyed
gaze lies on the baby blue bib,
imprinted with a small white bird,
next to her on the bed. Beside
the bib is a wristband from
Carnation Hospital, and an
open, small, wooden box.

She reaches for the bib and
caresses the soft cotton,
shadowing the bird and the seams.
She takes a glance at the wristband,
but clenches her eyes. She grips the
bib and holds it to her cheek and
sits this way until she melts into
the dark.

The streaks drift.

Coming to from her trance, she lays
the bib into the box, then tosses
the wristband in before shutting
the top. She carries the box to
the closet and buries it beneath
a bundle of unkempt, *****
clothes. She closes the door and prays
to the blessed ****** Mary.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Saudade - A word in European and Brazilian Portuguese defined by a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return.

                            corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out corners of mouths
when blackened eyes have gone numb
blood weeps out                              



-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.

A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an ******-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.

And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.

A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Though the content of this poem was developed within the dark confines of my mind, it was in part inspired by, i_weigh, Sam Smith, and Marie Southard Ospina. As someone with rather extreme, played-a-small-part-in-my-four-suicide-attempts level of body image issues, I'm hoping I can go from the shameful young man to the validated old man by the time I'm dead… I mean, not the young stud doing pullups, I can't do those. I've done an 1000lb leg press, but pullups? You crazy?! But enjoying that dessert wine and a book? That I can dig.
I want you; I want your everything.

I want to gobble your pain in my embrace
until your tears and snot soak up my shirt.
To dance to your laughter that resonates
in my skull, and your clever whispers
leaving my ears ringing for days.
To feel across the surface of your soul;
the coarse and smooth,
the dips and grooves,
the frigid and the flamed.
I yearn to savour you, your lips and your honey,
your sour history and your sweet dreams.
To breathe you in, to know your sweat
and your soap, your scent so well I remember
you’ve been here before if I’m ever alone.
To touch your static, your charge, your heart,
the one that makes mine melt and tremble.

I want you; I want your everything.

And if any part of you wants me,
my broken glass, my cute quips,
my puppy dog wags that only you can cause,
take it all. Take my everything.
It is yours.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
clasped hands on snow covered hills

trails of blood down fresh cut legs

pain and love behind the big brown eyes
of a smiling freckled face embraced

flushed from crown to nape


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Mine was not outdoors; don't know if that's fortunate or unfortunate. At least it wasn’t in the cold. My hypothetical characters are troopers of romance… or they have very strict parents but are still bursting with hormones…
Heard from within the static
An erratic fracture falling flat
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out

Found whimpering in dimpled corners
Unearthing a second coming
Calling all the innocent out
Calling all the innocent out

Calling all the innocent out


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
He proclaims this room as if it’s his throne
Igniting his body with his cologne

He presses the top like a wheel to a stone
Then leaves me behind all cold and alone


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)
Can you guess which handsome pop ballad British singer I was listening to while writing this?
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